In the sweltering heat of the Indian summer, the highway – a deliquesecent blue-black ribbon of asphalt – plays tricks on your eyes. What seems like an old farmhouse in the distance dissolves into withering heaps of hay as you approach nearer; a roadside inn into an abandoned bus-shelter; a distant village into a smoldering brick kiln. I look for the familiar shack to my left, tucked amidst a clump of eucalyptus and neem. I see a long line of trucks, motionless, by the roadside – the driver and his mates cooking a humble meal over portable stoves. My heart sinks. This is not the place I so wanted it to be.

Even after multiple frantic goings-over, I couldn't, for the life of me, find the dhaba (a roadside eatery) whose roti tadka and lassi will always remind me of a happy and carefree time. And then I realized that my craving for the roti-tadka-lassi was less an urge prompted by my yearning tastebuds than a desire to go back in time – to the happy frolic of the summer holidays; to the frequent roadtrips; to the scrumptious breakfast at Pappu's dhaba, the highlight of (most of) our roadtrips. I longed for the lusterless aluminium plates – the fat blob of butter melting on the hot rotis, fringed by halved onions and a pair of glistening bent-headed green chillies (oh, so stubborn!) – the fuming tadka so hot that I always ended up burning my tongue on it! A trivial affliction, indeed – considering the rich reward

Not just the food, I also longed for those mornings – with my feet dangling from the wide charpoi – a line of fishtail drongos on the rough-hewn fence posts – the sapphire sky overhead, vast and spotless. And, I remembered the line of bejeweled trucks – their gaudy tassels fluttering wildly in the cool  morning breeze. The proprietor of the dhaba (was his name Pappu? I never asked) – a kind-faced man with a top knot – sat behind the counter under the protective gaze of Guru Nanak. One day, when his black beard would turn white, I fancied, he would look like the Guru himself!

In some dhabas, I am told, washing machines are used to churn out lassi by the gallons! Did Pappu's dhaba have one of those WMs? I wonder now…

Seized by the craving for tadka (I obviously didn't have the recipe), I turned to the internet. I googled relentlessly for the recipe. There were countless, but none that I felt like putting my heart to. From the uncertain sagacity derived from these fleeting pages to the countless samplings in roadside eateries to the awkward conversations with bare acquaintances to an almost-faithful simulation of Pappu's signature dish took me a while.

I would leave it at that – at the almost-faithful, the near-perfect yet, not quite. For, like the drongos who flew away each time I reached out to catch them, I fear losing (the memory of) that early piquant delight to the sterile search for perfection.

For the tadka, you'll need:

1. 250 gms Green moong dal plus gram dal (in the ratio 1:3) soaked in water for about 6-8 hours or overnight

2. 4 medium to large red onions, finely chopped

3. 1 large tomato, coarsely chopped

4. 1 tsp garlic paste

5. 3/4th tsp ginger paste

6. 1 tbsp tandoori masala

7. 1 tsp coriander powder

8. 3-4 tsp red chilli powder

9. 1 tbsp kasoori methi (dried fenugreek leaves)

10. Ghee/clarified butter to cook plus some extra butter

11. 1 cup chopped cilantro/coriander leaves

12. 1 tbsp fresh cream (optional)

13. Salt and Sugar to taste

14. 2 large eggs (scrambled)

 

Pressure cook/boil the lentils until soft. With the back of a ladle, mash coarsely and set aside.

Heat the ghee (about 4 tbsp) in a heavy-bottomed wok and fry the onions until golden and aromatic. Put in the chopped tomatoes and cook until well blended. Then, add the chilli, tandoori and coriander powders, stirring continuously. Next, put in the freshly-ground garlic and ginger paste and cook until oil separates. Stir in the kasoori methi followed by the cooked lentils. Cook over a high flame, stirring continuously. Add more ghee (or vegetable oil, if you are [god forbid ] counting calories) if required and salt and sugar to taste. You may go on to add half a cup of warm water (no more!) to your tadka at this stage (before putting in the salt and sugar) if you think it's too thick. Put in the chopped cilantro and the scrambled eggs and simmer (covered) over a low flame for about 3-4 minutes. Finish by adding fresh cream and a jolly good dollop of butter.

Serve with rotis/paranthas along with halved raw onions and a couple of green chillies.